Category Archives: Piece of Country

Okay, so Monday’s episode of Oprah featured Paula Deen. {Work-at-home bonus — Oprah at 2.} You know, the grandmotherly, southernly, twangity twang twang recipe-maker, cook extraordinaire? Which, considering I can count the number of times I use the oven each year on one hand, normally wouldn’t interest me in the least.

Forget that it’s PURE FAT and sickenly high in cholesterol. Paula, you had me at hello. {And THAT, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.}

So, I cooked it. I cooked it with gusto. I cooked it with a fierce southern accent. And by this, I DO mean I talked — narrated, in fact — as I whisked and sauteed and chopped and fried. Had anyone come in unannounced, they’d surely assume I was completely insane. The dog was thoroughly confused.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something downright infectious about a southern drawl. Same deal with an English accent. And EVERY time I talk to someone with either accent, within 10 minutes, I become Madonna. Which totally sounds like I’m mocking and usually ends with me excusing myself for one reason or another before I humiliate myself beyond repair.

I digress.

Anyhoo, here it is — MY finished dish.

Not as PURTY, but it turned out pretty darn good if I do say so myself. I expect to wake up 2 lbs heavier.

And like a dog howling uncontrollably in response to a passing ambulance, MP broke out into an exaggerated tune of her own, emphasizing just the right amount of twang.

There used to be a woah-man

That I loved

But she hated me

And popped my eye out

Now I have one.

I was laughing too hard to write down the lyrics to the next song, but I CAN report, it involved two boys in love who couldn’t get married because it was against the law.

Oh, and sidenote? Tonight, for the first time, she asked where babies came from. Which took me completely off guard, but by the time “Weeelll …” came out of my mouth, she’d forgotten her question and was on to something else.

Technically, Grammy and MP are getting chickens, but we live within 500 feet of one another, so what’s Grammy’s is ours. (Yes, I am THAT neighbor.)

This isn’t an Easter thing — Grammy’s wanted chickens (and their eggs) forever, and this Christmas, Poppy finally surrendered and surprised her with a bale of wood shavings. So, seeing as spring is just around the corner, this past weekend the three of us drove just up the road (Not just ANY road. It’s dirt. Which earns Country Romance Points.) to the Chicken Lady’s house.

The chickens were absolutely lovely, and soft, and unbelievably docile. MP was charmed.

So was I … until she slipped in chicken poo, got up, and revealed a giant green skid mark up her leg. It took all the strength I had to let it go, when all I wanted to do was strip off her clothes and hose her down. It’ll be interesting to see how the OCD/Chicken Poo Combo shakes out. (I may need Foolery‘s help with this one.)